


the kids aren't alright

by butmomilovemyboys



Series: sam & dean & demon powers [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Minor Injuries, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Werewolves, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butmomilovemyboys/pseuds/butmomilovemyboys
Summary: “Who’s there?” He tries to keep the fear out of his voice. He knows that it was no gun that could do that kind of damage, no witch that could make a hex like that, and no spirit that could make that happen.So it’s a large shock when he finds his seven-year-old little brother, all baggy clothed and shaggy haired, standing in the middle of clearing, his own flashlight shaking in his grip, his front covered in werewolf blood. Sam flashes his light at Dean, small gasps escaping his voice.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, John Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: sam & dean & demon powers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822591
Comments: 7
Kudos: 149





	the kids aren't alright

**Author's Note:**

> i will be getting back to criminal minds soon i promise but in the meantime i had this idea about baby sam's powers so like. is it canon? not really. do i care? not a bit. also john might be a bit ooc but this is mostly for myself. i hope you enjoy!

Dean falls backwards on to the cold forest ground, all the air escaping his lungs quickly. He groans, then blinks, then groans again. 

The other fifth graders in his class don’t have to deal with this shit.  _ They  _ don’t get sent on hunts from their dads where they get chased through the woods in the middle of February.  _ They  _ don’t lose their shotguns twenty minutes in.  _ They  _ don’t even know what werewolves even are. 

It takes him a second to register that he’s on the ground, trying to gather breath back into his lungs without freaking out. 

“If Dad finds you freaking out, he’ll freak out,” Dean tells himself. “So don’t freak out.” 

He doesn’t. He just blinks up at the blurry shapes of trees that he can’t quite make out because the sun is almost set. He pats his pockets and bag for his flashlight as the panic sets in. He doesn’t want to be stuck in the dark, but even more, he doesn’t want to face his father’s wrath if he finds him without his flashlight. The shotgun is one thing, but the flashlight is another. His breath hitches when he can’t feel it, but eventually his numb fingers find the cold metal light in his back pocket, which he prayed hadn’t broken during his fall. He rolls onto his side swiftly as something crunches in the leaves a few feet in front of him. He knocks the back of the flashlight when he doesn’t turn on right away, and watches as the pale yellow light flickers a beam in front of him. He doesn’t see the face of the werewolf, but he sees the silhouette, and it’s enough to knock the wind right back out of his finally functioning lungs. Finally, the eyes come into the light, and the beam bounces off them, harsh and cold. He shudders. 

He could plead with him, he could make a run for it, or he could lay down and die, but he doesn’t do any of that, because neither one of them moves. 

He wants to yell for his Dad, but for some reason, that sounds worse than dying.

(No, it doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t.)

He swallows his stubborn pride when he shrieks, as the werewolf snarls and starts running at him. He scrambles to his feet with labored breaths, slipping on the dry frost-covered leaves beneath him. 

“Dad!” he cries, his flashlight fumbling in his hands. “Dad!” 

But his father isn’t coming, and all he’s got is a weak light and the cold night air. 

He didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Sammy before they embarked on their hunt. Poor little Sam, all alone in that motel room, thinking his big brother was coming back for him, but he wasn’t. Dean wanted to cry. There was an aching in his chest that was pushing up his throat, but fear was more crippling than the sadness. 

The werewolf doesn’t say anything, other than snarls and grunts as he tries to pounce on Dean. But he’s not going down without a fight, so he throws his fairshare of punches and kicks as he tries to escape. He realizes he’ll die out here, in the middle of the woods, all alone. He wishes wildy for his little brother. Just to see him one more time before he dies. Or even his father, for that matter, but no one is coming. Not one. 

He’s just about to scream, just about to feel the werewolf’s teeth sink into his throat, when something that can only be described as  _ weird _ happens. To him, a miracle. For the werewolf...perhaps not so much. 

He  _ swears _ someone calls his name, and it sounds like a kid, someone younger than him, but it’s gone before he can register who it is. To be fair, however, his focus is more on that werewolf about to chomp his head off. He squeezes his eyes shut, so hard that it’s painful, but he didn’t want to see the inside of the monster’s mouth. Before he can take one last breath, there’s an ugly squishing noise, and suddenly he’s drenched in something warm and wet. 

“Wha...what?” The werewolf falls down next to him with a  _ thump.  _ It’s blood, he realizes, and a pit in his stomach forms. For a brief horrible moment, he thinks it’s his own, but he realizes quickly that it’s actually the werewolf’s. 

He shudders again, because it’s gross and warm and smelly. He swiftly reaches on the ground for his dim flashlight. He regrets shining it on the werewolf, because the second he does, it makes him want to puke. It was almost like it had exploded, like it had been blown up from the inside out. He actually  _ does  _ puke, because although he had seen a lot of gore before, this was the most blood he had ever seen. He didn’t even know that there was that much blood in something. 

But as soon as he’s done, he whips his mouth and whips his flashlight around, trying to find the source of... whatever just happened. 

“Who’s there?” He tries to keep the fear out of his voice. He knows that it was no gun that could do that kind of damage, no witch that could make a hex like that, and no spirit that could make that happen. 

So it’s a large shock when he finds his seven-year-old little brother, all baggy clothed and shaggy haired, standing in the middle of clearing, his own flashlight shaking in his grip, his front covered in werewolf blood. Sam flashes his light at Dean, small gasps escaping his voice. 

“Dean?” he says, tears streaming down his face.  _ “Dean.”  _

It takes Dean a minute to register what’s going on, but when his eyes center in on small drops of blood falling from Sam’s nose, his instincts kick in. Before he knows it, he’s running to Sam before the poor kid collapses in his arms, shaking like a leaf. 

He brings them both to the ground, trying not to think about the way they smell like shit and probably look like it too. But Sam doesn’t say anything, so neither does he. Instead, Sam shakes in his arms while Dean rocks him, trying to sooth his little brother... while also soothing himself. 

“Sammy,” Dean says in a low voice. “Sammy, what happened?” 

Sam shakes his head. “I dunno.”

“Well, something sure happened!” He tries not to sound angry, he really does. However, it’s frigid and all he can think about is the mediocre motel room bed that just sounds  _ so  _ much better than whatever was going on right now, so screw him if he’s a little on edge. 

Sam doesn’t seem to even notice. “My head hurts.” This kid sounds absolutely miserable, and he leans his head into Dean’s shoulder. “The-the monster...he was gonna kill you!”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Yeah, maybe. Sammy, who did that? Who killed it? Did you see?”

“I think…” He stops himself short and tries to bury himself further in Dean’s arms. Dean doesn’t stop him, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t frustrate him. 

“What, Sam?” he tries again. “What do you think?”

Sam slowly pulls himself out of Dean’s grip to face him. The blood still drips down his nose, and in the light of their flashlights, Dean can see how dilated his pupils are. Besides that, the tears stream freely down his face, but he looks solem and frightened. 

“Please don’t be angry.”

All the anger melted out of Dean. You can’t say no to Sam sometimes. “Why would I be?” 

“I think…” His chin quivered. “I think I did that.” 

“What?” 

“I think I made it explode,” Sam whispers, throwing himself back into Dean’s arms. 

“Sammy, you couldn’t have, buddy.”

“I  _ did,”  _ he argues. “I just...I just blinked and I felt myself do it.”

“Sam…” Dean begins, but he can’t find the end of his sentence. 

“Yeah?” 

Dean just shakes his head. 

He’s silent for a while. He doesn’t believe Sam did it, or more, he didn’t  _ want  _ to believe Sam did it. Sam is a kid. Sam is a  _ baby.  _ Sam collects bugs and draws them and then names them after the ninja turtles. He reads Bobby’s old books and asks Bobby a million questions until he tuckers himself out. He tries to keep their motel rooms clean and he always lets Dean take shotgun in the Impala. Sam  _ can’t  _ make werewolves blow up. There wasn’t a bone in his body that was able to do that. 

And yet sometimes…

Sometimes there were moments.

Sometimes things would just happen to Sam, like creepy strangers taking a liking to him when they shouldn’t, or their father’s colleagues saying stuff about Sam being special to John, who would argue back, but look defeated by the end. Their words run in the back of Dean’s head 24/7, and only in this moment did he think... _ they may be right. _

But when Sam starts crying, quietly sobbing into Dean’s shoulder, he wipes the thought from his mind completely. “My head  _ hurts.”  _

Dean wasn’t surprised. That was Sam’s new thing. Sam had been having headaches all the time lately. His dad said it was because he stayed up too late trying to read books with flashlights under the covers and not enough water. 

“What can I do?” Dean asks. 

“It’s behind my eyes,” he wines pitifully. “I want it to go  _ away. _ ” 

“I don’t know how to do that, Sammy.” 

“I know. It just hurts.” He sounds miserable, and it hurts Dean’s heart. 

Something dawns on Dean. “Sammy?”

Sam sniffles. “Yeah?” 

“How...how did you get here?” 

Sam is silent. Either he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want Dean to know. Both are not good. Before Dean can ask again, someone is screaming his name. And this time, he knows who it is. “Dean!” John yells through the trees. “Dean, answer me!” 

“I’m here!” Dean’s voice cracks when he calls back. “Dad!” 

John comes running into the clearing, adding another flashlight to the two already there. 

“Are you alright? Dean, are you--” He stops when he sees his youngest shuddering in his eldest’s arms. “Sammy?” 

“Daddy!” Sam leaps out of Dean’s arms in exchange for John’s. He doesn’t call John “Daddy” very often anymore. Only when his headaches get really bad or after a nightmare. Dean guesses this counts for both. “Dad!”

John willingly picks Sam up, holding him close. “Sam, what the hell are you doing here?”

“The monster was after Dean!” Sam cries, his voice muffled against John’s coat. 

John’s eyes flicker to Dean. “Did you kill it?” 

He doesn’t ask if he’s alright. But his eyes do. 

“N-No,” Dean says. “Not exactly.”

He moves his flashlight towards the mutilated body. John follows the light, not quite understanding what he’s seeing, until his eyes go wide. 

He sets Sam down, who moves back towards Dean silently. Dean puts his arm around his little brother, breathing through his mouth to avoid their smell. 

“Holy shit…” John breathes. “Dean, what did this?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

“I did it, Dad,” Sam chimes in. 

Dean elbows him in the side. “Dude!”

“What?” Sam looks up at him, his eyes normally dilated now, but his face still pale. He doesn’t get it. It’s dangerous if he’s right, it’s dangerous if he’s wrong. Either way, he needs to keep his mouth shut. Their dad was on edge often enough. 

“You did this, Sammy?” John asks slowly. “How’d you get here in the first place, buddy?”

John uses that tone with Sammy when he’s worried about him. Sam is usually receptive, but tonight, Dean wasn’t sure how he’d react. Dean wasn’t sure about much tonight. 

“I, uh…” 

“Tell me, son.” 

Sam squirms under Dean’s arm. “There was a man. A tall man.”

“A man?” John asks, his tone soft, but anger building behind it. 

“Dressed in black. He drove me here.”

“A stranger drove you here?” John’s voice was getting stricter. Dean holds his grip on his brother. “How did he know where we were, Sam?”

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t  _ know?” _

“I knew Dean was in trouble, Dad,” Sam says definitely. “I knew it!”

“How?” John says through gritted teeth. 

Sam goes quiet. “I...I saw it.” 

“Saw it?” John asks, his eyebrows furrowing. “Sam, what the hell are you on about?”

“In my head, Daddy,” Sam says sheepishly. “Sometimes I have dreams when I get my headaches…” 

“Sam…” John warns, his eyes narrowing. 

“What'd you see, Sammy?” Dean interrupts, the pit growing in his stomach. “In the dream?”

Sam looks up at him, new tears in his eyes. “I saw the monster eating you.”

There’s a heavy silence between all three Winchesters, and Dean slowly rubs Sam’s back to calm him as he shivered. 

“But…” Sam tilts his head innocently. “I wasn’t asleep, Dean...I was awake.”

_ Visions, Sammy. Those are visions.  _

That’s what he wants to say, but Sam looks up at him with those big old hazel eyes of his, and the pit in his stomach grows. Instead, he says, “What about the man, Sammy?”

“He was outside the motel room,” Sam explains. “He said he could help me.”

“Well, where is he now?” John retorts sharply, making Sam flinch next to Dean. “Where the hell is he, Sam?” 

Sam looks around. “I dunno.” 

“Samuel Winchester, are you trying to tell me that someone drove you here, and now you don’t know where he went?” 

Dean shudders. Sam is almost  _ never  _ “Samuel.” It’s always  _ Sam  _ or  _ Sammy  _ or even  _ Sam Winchester,  _ but never, ever,  _ Samuel.  _ It felt wrong. So when his father uses it, he knows he means it. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whimpers, burying his face in Dean’s arm. “I just-”

“You could have died, Sam!” 

“But then Dean would have too!” Sam yells back, but he winces like it was too much for him and falls back weakly on Dean. Dean keeps him upright. 

Something in his father’s demeanor softens when he sees it happen, but the anger in his eyes doesn’t disappear. 

“He’s right, Dad,” Dean says slowly. “I would have died.”

John didn’t look right at Dean then, but he sighs and his shoulders drop a bit. He briefly looks like he could tear Sam in two, but Sam must still look a little wonky, because he stops himself from what could have turned a bad night into a worse one. “Sammy, is your nose bleeding?”

Sam slowly raises his finger to his nose. “Yessir.” 

John’s eyes softened and turned to Dean. “Are you alright, Dean?” 

Dean embarrassingly fights the tears back. “I’m...okay.” 

“Sam.” John kneels in front of the boys. “Sam, you can’t do that.”

“But Dean--”

_ “Sam.” _

Sam bowes his head. “I know.”

John looks like he might argue more, but he doesn’t. He just sighs again. 

“You boys look like you could use a shower,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t I know it.” Dean tries for a joke, but it falls short. Sam still shakes next to him. 

John nods, then cups Sam’s shoulder with one hand and Dean’s with another. “Well, c’mon then. Let’s get you cleaned up.” John lifts Sam’s chin with his hand. “Sound good, Sammy?” 

Dean watches as John wipes away that blood from Sam’s nose. 

“Uh huh,” Sam agrees, looking up at John. John gives him the lightest of smiles before taking him up into his arms and swinging him onto his back. Sam, exhausted, leans his head against his father’s shoulder, his eyelids drooping. 

John ruffles Dean’s hair. “We’ll get some burgers on the way back, alright?”

“Sure, Dad,” Dean says, smiling. “Pie too?”

John considers it. “Could you and Sammy split a piece? I don’t know if I’ve got enough change in the car.”

“He can have it,” Sam provides in a tired voice. 

“You sure?” Dean would settle for spitting it, but he was real hungry. If Sam was offering, he wouldn’t necessarily turn him down. 

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Sammy smiles at him lazily from his father’s back before closing his eyes again. Dean hold’s their flashlights as they walk back through the woods.

~

The motel room beds are a bit stiff, but they’re warm and they’re dry, and it’s enough for Dean to be content. Sam’s head lays in his lap. His head was still aching, he said, but he finally fell asleep. Dean was tired too, but he didn’t want to move in fear that Sam would wake up. He lays his head back on the headboard and tries to watch the fuzzy tv in front of him. It was playing some old movie his father liked, one of those black and white westerns that had gunslingers and duels. Usually, he’d be all in. He loves his dad’s cowboy movies. 

But all he could see was the blood, and how it covered him and his brother. All he could see was Sammy in the clearing, shuddering with his flashlight in hand. All he could see was the way Sam stared and bled. It made him sick to his stomach all over again. 

Sam whines under him, squirming slightly. 

“Shh, Sam,” Dean comforts. “It’s just a nightmare.” After a moment, he calms down. Dean runs his hand through his hair, like he had many times before. 

“You alright?” John asks from the other bed. 

Dean nods. “I think so.”

“Good.”

“Dad?” Dean asks.

“Mmm?”

“That man Sammy was talking about,” he says, looking straight at the tv. “Was he human?”

John inhales sharply. “I don’t think so, son.”

“Was he trying to kill Sam?”

“No,” says John. “But I don’t think he was trying to help either.”

Dean didn’t ask anymore questions. He doesn’t want to know more, honestly. He knows there’s more to the story, more to  _ Sam’s  _ story, but he can’t bring himself to dwell on it too much. 

“What happened in those woods tonight, Dean?” John says after a few minutes. 

Dean has been waiting for his father to ask. He knew he would eventually, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“I don’t know, Dad,” he says honestly. “I can’t explain it.”

He could, he supposes. He could say that his little brother had a vision, and something bad helped him get to Dean as fast as he could. He could say that Sam saw his brother almost killed, so he did what he wanted to do most. Sam murdered the werewolf. 

But Dean won’t say any of that. Because at the end of the day, he had to protect Sam, and protect him always. Even from their father. Even from Sam himself. 

John must sense he’s keeping something from him, but he doesn’t press him. Maybe he knows something Dean doesn’t. Infact, Dean is certain he does. “Is Sammy alright?”

Dean swallows. “I don’t know that either.” That part he’s very honest about. 

“Dean,” John commands, his voice steady. “Answer me one last question honestly.”

“Yessir?”

“Did Sam kill that werewolf?”

The silence that follows makes his ears ring. 

“No,” he lies. “No, he didn’t.”

  
  



End file.
